


by moonlight

by Aquaphobe



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Depression, Eventual Fluff, F/M, Hogwarts Eighth Year, I promise, Like really slow, Mental Health Issues, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Slow Burn, also angst, and snark, because what else can you expect from this pairing?, ewe - end without epilogue, no really
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-12-31
Updated: 2018-10-15
Packaged: 2019-02-24 07:38:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,606
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13209048
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aquaphobe/pseuds/Aquaphobe
Summary: Asleep, Draco is hunted by his fears; awake, he is haunted by regrets.Hermione feels neither of these things, but the emptiness left by the war drives her out of her bed every night with an itch in her feet and an ache in her chest.When the two hapless wanderers stumble across one another, how will their crumbling worlds be affected?





	1. mad world

**Author's Note:**

> hey there! so, this fic is an ongoing project from over the course of the last few years, and has actually reached a vaguely substantial length already. i thought i'd start uploading this fic in rapid drips and drabs as i gave it another edit and read over.
> 
> each chapter will be around 1000 words long – i am capable of writing much longer (note: when my muse isn't being an insipid wart), but I wanted to challenge myself by keeping them short! 
> 
> also, the title of each chapter will be the name of the song that I listened to while writing it. please feel under no obligations to listen to them, though. the name of the singer for this chapter (Mad World) is Gary Jules.

Tense muscles relaxed, and fast, sharp breathing slowed into a long sigh—

_Just breathe..._

_In, and out._

—And again _—_

_In, and out._

—Heavy eyelids lifted. The silver eyes beneath skipped over the darkness.

_In, and out._

Draco’s heart thumped hard and fast from the remnants of his dream – from the remnants of his nightmare – but with every moment that passed he could feel the nervous clamour inside of him calming. Quelling.

 _In, and out_.

Fingers with only the barest hint of a tremble reached up to run over his neck. He knew it wasn't real, but... But somehow...

 _In, and out_.

But somehow he could still feel the snake fangs an inch deep in his throat.

It had felt so real; it did every time.

_In, and out..._

Releasing one final breath, Draco Malfoy let the darkness soak into his skin like a cooling balm on his frayed nerves. His forehead was clammy with a cold sweat that stuck his pale hair to his brow, and the bed sheets were caught in tangles around his legs. Like arms. Or  _coils_.

The eighteen-year-old gulped and pushed himself upright when the darkness around him started to shift into looming, flickering figures. He knew it was his imagination, but…

He felt caged in, his chest tight with memories and images and voices and  _feelings_  and  _regrets_  and—

— and he desperately clawed aside the thick, plush bed curtains; moonlight flooded over him in a pale glow of— _it's okay now_ —light from the enchanted window.

It was okay, because here he was, not trapped liked he'd thought, but in a frighteningly familiar room. It had been his home for years, and had only ever offered him comfort and protection. Even when he was at his worst during sixth year, the sounds of Crabbe and Goyle's mulish snores and Nott's restless mumbling were there to comfort him.

But now, the room was silent.

No Vince.

No Greg.

No Theo.

None of the other Death Eater's children. He didn't want to remember the fate of the other boys, because whenever he did, he recalled that he was the lucky one. They might not have been his friends, but they were damn close. The closest he'd ever had, in fact. And now they were either dead or condemned to rot in the darkest corners of Azkaban.

And here was Draco, somehow spared from Azkaban; on nights like this, his sanity was the price. Draco was sure that the guilt was consuming him from the inside out,  _because he didn't deserve this freedom!_

The only company that the blond had from his own thoughts was the silencing and locking charms humming with quiet ferocity around Zabini's bed.

Zabini, the only Slytherin boy in Draco's year to remain neutral from the very beginning, and until the very end. The only one who'd never once attempted to befriend Draco, or to pander to him, or to confront him. There had always been nods of greeting and acceptance during their earlier years, but the dark skinned boy had remained steadfastly on the outskirts, observing from a distance.

When the Dark Lord had returned, Zabini had somehow made himself as scarce as possible around his housemates. He'd had enough sense to cast protective spells around his bed and his belongings from that point on; no one aside from Draco had seemed to pay him any mind, because Zabini had always been fastidious when it came to his personal space. After all, he'd cast silencing charms every night for as long as Draco could remember.

No, Zabini had always been watchful and wary. It was just amplified now more than ever. The nods were gone, the social graces cast aside, and all that remained was his watchfulness. His wariness.

Upon returning to British wizarding society from wherever it was he’d disappeared to in the Summer after the war, Zabini had made it astonishingly clear to everyone near him that he felt Draco wasn't to be trusted. In the few days since they'd returned to Hogwarts to complete their final year, the most he’d offered Draco was the faint curl of his lip.

Really, the blond was sure he deserved it. He couldn't bring himself to resent Zabini his suspicions or his self-preserving actions. After all, why would the other boy draw unfavourable attention to himself by associating with a confirmed Death Eater when he was already in a precarious position, simply by being part of Slytherin house?

There wasn't a single person who didn't watch the entirety of Slytherin house with mistrust anymore. Not one.

And if even the innocent, first year Slytherins were being shunned then that made Draco doubly reviled by the general populace.

He was doubted and scorned by every last person that passed him, and he couldn't bring himself to blame them. He wasn't exactly number one in his own books recently, let alone anyone else's.

But honestly? The eighteen year old couldn't bring himself to care.

Their opinions didn't matter to him. He was living his very own kind of hell here, trapped inside of his head. He had no space for other peoples' hatred too. And it wasn't like he could change their opinions by worrying about it.

So he attended his classes, ate the bare minimum at breakfast, lunch and dinner, ignored the world around him, studied, and slept until he was forced awake by his nightmares. He was on autopilot, just like everyone else that had returned to Hogwarts. At least he  _saw_  that, though. At least he knew that the war had messed him up. At least he didn't  _laugh_  and  _smile_  and  _pretend_  like everything was alright. Because he knew that behind those masks of happiness, they were feeling pain and distress too. Perhaps he should envy them for being able to ignore it, but he didn't want their denial. He deserved this – it was his punishment for the life he'd allowed himself to be led into without even the slightest hint of resistance. And after he'd mourned the loss of his old lifestyle and his old delusions, he would pick himself up and put his life back together. He had no plans to remain broken forever.

Draco rubbed at his stinging eyes and stood up, gathering his wand and his cloak from where he'd left it to crease on the floor. Draping the thick, dark material over his shoulders and stepping into his shoes, Draco walked towards the dormitory door. He cast a nonverbal disillusionment charm on himself as he went.

After all, there was really no point going back to bed when he knew he wasn't going to be able to sleep for the rest of the night. Which was a shame, really. As terrifying as his nightmares were, at least when he was in them he wasn't being tormented by his guilt and loneliness and fears.


	2. blue lips

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks to those who kudos'd and subscribed last chapter :))
> 
> (singer: regina spektor)

Her shoulder was numb. There was nothing there. No feeling at all.

Damn, his head was heavy.

She considered shaking him awake with her free hand, but thought that might appear to be too callous of her. It was just that she had a crick in her neck and his soft ginger hair kept tickling her chin, and she wanted to turn the page of her book but couldn't move her hand. Couldn't move her hand from his clasp, and the warm, clammy dampness of his palm was slick against hers. Their intertwined fingers were slippery, and really…

Well, it just wasn't pleasant. Or hygienic.

Plus he was snoring in increasingly loud rumbles, right next to her ear.

She'd never been a particularly touchy-feely person, and this whole experience of being literally ' _tangled up_ ' with someone should have made her fairly uncomfortable.

Should have, but then Hermione wasn't sure she felt much of anything anymore. Certainly not enough for things to truly bother her. And it probably made her a terrible person, but quite frankly, she just didn't know how to act around Ron anymore. Especially not when he got all weepy and clingy and—

No, it  _undoubtedly_  made her a bad person. Her boyfriend was grieving still because of the war, and here she was, unable to muster much of anything in the face of his mourning. He wanted her comfort and she gave what she could, but that really wasn't saying much.

There wasn't much of Hermione Granger at all anymore, to be perfectly frank. She just wasn't there. The closest she ever got to feeling irked or upset these days was entirely to blame on the small things, like wanting to put some socks on because her toes were getting cold, or the way her bra strap kept slipping down, or how Ron's sticky, humid breath kept washing over her neck.

But what bothered her the most... what stirred in her the need to  _move_  was that her – shoulder – was –  _numb_.

And for some reason, that made her skin crawl.

Ron sighed a long, gusty sigh just at that moment, and turned his face so that his nose squished unpleasantly up against her throat, she got a mouthful of slightly musty smelling hair, and the weight of his entire torso smooshed unappealingly against her arm.

That was it.

That was  _enough_.

She had to get away from him.

With the barest hint of a grimace, Hermione pushed her book to one side (along with the arm Ron had draped across her lap) and slowly peeled herself away from her boyfriend, untangling her hand from his and edging out from beneath the covers. She grabbed her wand from where it had been sat beside her, shining a dim, continuous lumos, and flicked the spell away with a silent, " _Finite Incantatem_."

This, of course, had the unfortunate side effect of switching off the silencing spell she'd put up in order to spare her only dorm mate from his incessantly heavy breathing. She may not have ever gotten on with Parvati on a personal level, but she understood that the other girl had lost her closest friend during the Battle of Hogwarts, and ever since, she'd been very emotionally delicate. To be quite frank, having Ron's bellowing snorts wake her up every few minutes was the last thing the poor girl needed.

The frizzy haired eighteen-year-old slipped around her bed curtains and recast the spell as swiftly as possible.

On the other side, it took her only a moment to gather the few possessions she needed. The first thing she required were her thickest, warmest socks – her toes had been cold prior to making contact with the chill wooden floor; now they were beginning to turn white. The second was to grab her red fleece jacket from where it stayed neatly folded on top of her trunk. Even though it was early September, the corridors beyond the Common Room were draughty and chilled.

A quick glance at her watch informed her that it was almost two o'clock in the morning, meaning that she'd managed an extra hour in bed tonight before resorting to her habitual nightly wanderings. Somehow that seemed like a shame, because the castle was so beautiful and peaceful at night, like it had been frozen in time centuries ago, and remained unchanged. The reparations after the war had returned it to them almost faultless.

It took a moment of silent consideration before she snapped out of her reverie and returned to the present. Checking herself over a final time, Hermione tugged the waistband of her tatty jeans up a little higher on her hips. The addition of socks and her baggy, fading red fleece meant that she was ready to go.

Casting a disillusionment charm over herself, she crept from the room, easing the door shut behind her as she went.

The hallway beyond was silent, and her socked feet padded noiselessly over the floorboards, avoiding the areas that she recalled were prone to creaking. Descending the staircase, she made her way through the common room with barely a glance at the couches around the fire. She already knew that Harry and Ginny would be wrapped around each other as they slept, comforted by the warm crackling of the fireplace.

Ginny's dormitory was entirely empty now, and although they'd all long since figured out a way to let the boys ascend the girls' staircase (several variations of ' _Wingardium Leviosa_ ' and ' _Mobilicorpus_ ' worked reasonably well, as long as the boys weren't attempting to cast the spells on themselves), Ginny spent as little time in there as possible. She'd explained that there were simply too many memories, and Hermione could understand completely.

When she'd closed the portrait hole behind her, Hermione allowed her brain to switch off, her feet taking control and guiding her in whichever direction they fancied.

Some nights, they led her outside to the edge of the lake where she paced restlessly and skimmed pebbles across the waters edge until the Giant Squid plucked them from the surface.

Others, they brought her to the library, where she settled at a table with a random book and read until her eyes burned.

They even took her to the Entrance Hall, where she'd run her fingers along the solid wooden tables and crane her neck back to stare up at the enchanted ceiling, remembering the devastation of the battle and trying her hardest to recall her emotions.

Tonight though, her feet were taking her up into the Astronomy tower.

Hermione honestly didn't think to question this choice; tonight was just a night for climbing many steps and looking out of high views. There was no rhyme or reason to the choice, no urge to revisit other people's gruesome war memories. Not tonight. It was just that her feet decided it was the right place to go.

And as she climbed to the very top and opened the door to survey the open space, she thought that perhaps she understood why.

Standing on the very edge of the battlements – hands gripping the angular tops of the ramparts as if at any moment he might haul himself up and over the edge – was Draco Malfoy.

Hermione's breath caught briefly in her throat before releasing in a plume of white vapour from her mouth.

Head tilted up at the sky as if in prayer, the light of the moon cast his sharp, pale features in an ethereal blue glow, leaving his face starkly pale against the backdrop of the night.

It struck the Gryffindor that, by the blue moonlight, Malfoy looked incredibly human.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'd love to hear what you guys think so far


	3. exile, villify

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hhh, finally updating this monster again! :)))
> 
> singer: the national

" _I have no wand at the moment... I cannot defend myself."_

" _I am more defenceless than you can have dreamed of finding me, and still you have not acted..."_

" _No harm has been done, you have hurt nobody, though you are very lucky that your unintentional victims survived... I can help you, Draco."_

Draco couldn't help but hate the old man for his words. No harm had been done? All the harm in the world had been done, and Draco felt the weight of Albus Dumbledore's life acutely, where it rested on his shoulders. He may not have delivered the killing spell, but he had led the Death Eaters into the castle, he had disarmed the wizard, and had stepped aside and watched as he was carelessly murdered.

" _Draco, Draco, you are not a killer."_

But he was, wasn’t he? His actions had  _not_  been harmless. Not to any sane person.

Draco’s thoughts spun and swam in the bright, cool light of the waxing moon, the way they had each night he'd scaled the cold stone stairs and searched the sky for some sign of divine forgiveness. He’d made this trip every night since he'd been back at the castle, climbing all the way up here to revisit his memories. No matter the weather, no matter the lateness of the hour, no matter the amount of sleep he’d had (or rather, _hadn’t_ had), he dragged himself up out of bed and along the same corridors every night. By the end of the school year, he imagined his footprints would be worn into the stone, and the lack of sleep carved forever into the bruises beneath his eyes.

It was the least he felt that he could give.

He was responsible for taking hand in ending a human life, after all. It wouldn't have mattered if it were Albus Dumbledore, a Death Eater, a mud— a  _muggleborn_ , or a defenceless muggle child. Every life carried the same weight, in the end.

He felt like his soul had been ripped in two, and he could only now appreciate Dumbledore's words.

" _I don't think you will kill me, Draco. Killing is not nearly as easy as the innocent believe..."_

There was movement in the corner of Draco’s eye; he paused, breath still in his chest.

Of all things – the noise of her shuffling feet, the horrid, garish red  _thing_  she wore, or the click of the door behind her – it was her quiet sigh that announced to him exactly who it was.

The eighteen-year-old's pride wanted nothing more than to correct his defeated, slumped posture in front of the Gryffindor, but he didn't allow himself even that much. Here, he deserved this humiliation.

Draco deserved this.

He released the breath he had been holding in a long, billowing sigh.

The blond closed his eyes, the moon a bright white, even behind his eyelids.

"Granger," he said by way of greeting, voice not much more than a mumble. He didn't turn to face her.

"Malfoy," she replied. There was no inflection.

A silence stretched between them. He reopened his eyes, re-familiarising himself with the pinpricks of distant stars, the dark velvet blue of the night and the haloed paleness of the moon above them. After the moment of silence passed, in which neither had felt it necessary to say a word, Granger apparently took his lack of hostility as unspoken permission to join him.

She padded quietly up alongside him and stopped only a few feet away.

Finally, he turned to her, annoyance beginning to bubble up through the ever-present grief and guilt. Her face was washed out, the few freckles on her nose darker than usual under the moon's glow, and the smudges beneath hers eyes tell tale of little sleep. Her hair was such a mess around her head that he could practically feel the static in it.

"What are you doing here?" He'd intended to sound demanding, but it came out weak.

"What are  _you_  doing here?" Granger echoed, eyes flicking over his face.

"Mind your own bloody business.” The furrow in his brow and the curl of his lips were merely shadows of his usual haughty scowl.

They both lapsed into quietness again, looking away from each other to study the night sky.

"I'm here because I wanted to see the stars."

He hadn't honestly expected her to answer his question, so when she did he felt a brief twinge of surprise.

"Hmph," was his only reply.

"Did you know that every single star in the night sky is another sun, in another galaxy? And every one of those suns is orbited by planets and somewhere, light years away, there's most likely other forms of sentient life?"

He hadn't known that – hadn’t ever heard anything like it – but he supposed he shouldn't be surprised that the Know It All was going to try and shove her unwanted knowledge down his throat. Salazar forbid anyone go ten minutes without being reminded of her  _incredible_  intellect. It sounded like muggle gibberish anyway, and even if he didn’t want them all dead, he didn’t care for their outlandish beliefs.

"What’s it to me?" The words slipped out of his mouth in a low mutter.

"I suppose it just puts our insignificance into perspective.” She hummed tunelessly for a moment, before continuing. “Somewhere out there is another planet capable of sustaining life. Somewhere far, far away there are probably millions of them, actually. And all with intelligent, living creatures eating and fighting and sleeping."

Definitely muggle propaganda. He grunted in order to communicate his tired disgust.

Granger began to speak again after the small noise, like it had been encouragement to continue rather than antipathy. "Some people even believe that there are parallel universes out there. That there are mirror images of us living, breathing... Perhaps making different decisions under the circumstance we were given…

“Don't you think that's fascinating?" She turned to look at him again, and there was little of anything on her face that gave away her intentions. All she did was stare up at him with an intensity that made him want to move away. "That somewhere out there, there might be another you, and that mirror of Draco Malfoy might be an entirely different person. He might have done things differently.

“He might be  _better_."

For some reason, the words hit Draco like he'd been physically struck. He flinched, spinning to pin a glare on the Gryffindor.

But she was turning away and shuffling in her fuzzy green socks towards the door, and the spiral staircase beyond.

With that she was gone, just as swiftly as she’d arrived.

He might have called after her— " _How dare you, Granger, talking about things you could never understand? How_ dare _you vilify me?!"_ —but the words stuck in his throat. They lodged themselves there in a knot, and the very moment the door clicked shut behind her, Draco choked on a dry sob.

He didn't cry, because quite frankly he didn't have it in him. That wasn't to say that it didn't hurt, though. Especially not in his self-inflicted exile.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hope you guys are enjoying!


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